( Don't worry, Don— she won't be paying much attention to your apartment. Her interest will rest solely on him and on seeing him feeling better, sure he's low on chroma after what seems to have been a difficult week for him. A hot meal and a bit of overt tactility between strangers will see him back on his feet in no time.

And she clearly doesn't mind his eyes scanning down her; he'll see the hint of a sweaterdress beneath the peacoat and bare legs beneath, with knee-high boots on a short heel. Warm, comfortable— but nothing too intricate. She offers him a smile that goes a little blank to his mention of a carrot— not only is she from another country entirely, she's a hundred years his senior. Or is it junior, when she's significantly "younger"? She doesn't know Bugs Bunny, but she recognizes it's some sort of joke, at least. )

Well, so long as it isn't an apple. I wouldn't be able to come near you.

( She'll take the invitation with ease and step right in, reaching down to unzip and ease off her boots to be polite and revealing knee-high socks beneath, padding right into his living room to— ah, right. He said he tossed the table. She'll glance around for any sort of breakfast bar or kitchen counter to go set her bag on and produce the promised pasta, then start poking around the cabinets below for a skillet. )

It's nice to meet you, Don. And a drink would be lovely; whatever you happen into, I'm not picky. I wasn't sure you'd have any milk so I brought a bit by to reheat the pasta with.

( With the necessary items laid out, she'll leave them for the moment and turn back to him, considering. He seemed all right, when he'd opened the door, but he had asked her to take a look at him. Was he hurt after all...? The first aid kit in her hand seems to indicate she worries about it regardless. )

You never did tell me the mystery of the table, you know.